Dirty Damage: Chapter 12

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of The Poseidon’s wheelhouse, I watch the Palm Beach skyline recede into a shimmering mirage.

The lights from the harbor are pinpricks on the dark surface of the water, but it still doesn’t feel far enough away.

I turn to the former Russian naval officer manning the wheel. “Well?”

Kon’s beady brown eyes scrape over the touchscreen display. He points to the screen tracking the real-time thermal imaging of three vessels in our periphery.

“This is next-level shit, sir. The range on this is insane.”

“Three miles for heat signatures. Five for radar.” I recline against the leather captain’s chair, enjoying his barefaced awe. “The AI can identify vessel class and track historical patterns. Any ship that’s passed through these waters in the last six months? The system knows it.”

Kon taps at the screen, muttering the features to himself. “Underwater sonar. Aerial drone feed. Satellite overlay. Goddamn.”

“Here’s the crown jewel.” I bring up a ghosted overlay of invisible signals. “Complete surveillance cloak. We can see everything, but they can’t see us. Not even a whisper of an electronic signature.”

“It’s an invisible fortress.” He barks out a laugh, rubbing at his gray beard. “Governments would kill for this tech, Oleg.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” I clap him on the shoulder. “The question is, will they pay for it instead?”

I turn to look out over the bow, where the horizon stretches endless and blue.

Like possibilities.

Like power.

The salt spray hits the windows as we crest a wave, and I smile.

Everything’s falling into place.

Well, almost everything. Sutton hasn’t signed yet, but she will. I have no doubt.

Leaving Kon to steer the yacht out into deeper ocean, I head to the upper deck, where I find Artem with his head hanging over the railing.

“Looking a little queasy there, brother.” I smirk as he lets out a moan.

“F-fuck you,” he manages through a burp. “Tell your asshole captain to stop hitting every goddamn wave.”

“We’re on the ocean. Where exactly do you want him to steer?”

The yacht cuts through another swell, sending spray across the polished teak deck. Artem makes a sound like he’s dying.

“Forgot your Dramamine?”

“Took it.” He spits into the waves. “Threw it up before it could stick. Some fucking notice would have been nice before dragging me out here. Why couldn’t we do this on dry land?”

I lean against the railing, letting the wind blast away the lingering humidity. Below us, the hull cleaves through the water.

“Had to get Kon’s opinion on the tech. Can’t exactly demo a marine surveillance system from your living room.”

“How about…” Another heroic burp. “How ‘bout you invent something for seasickness instead? Now, that’s a billion-dollar idea.”

“Only for pansy little lightweights like you. Not a clientele I’m interested in.”

“Bastard.”

I turn my face into the wind, letting it scour away thoughts of the coming storm.

But even the ocean’s clarity can’t quite settle the restlessness under my skin.

Artem notices. Of course he does.

Even half-dead from motion sickness, the observant fuck doesn’t miss a thing.

“Spill it,” he groans, sliding down to sit on the deck. “What’s really going on? You didn’t drag us out here just to watch Kon drool over your new toys.”

If it were anyone else questioning me, they’d be testing the water temperature personally. But Artem has earned the right to push.

“I’m taking Boris down,” I say finally. “By year’s end, I’ll be pakhan of the Pavlov Bratva. And married.”

He dry heaves into a handkerchief before responding. “About fucking time.”

“That’s it?” I turn to him. “No questions? No reservations? No declarations that I’ve lost my mind?”

He shakes his head. “It’s about time you snatched power from that old ball sack. It’s also time you settled down.”

“I’m not getting married because I want a wife. It’s tactical.”

“Sure it is.” His knowing tone sets my teeth on edge. “Either way, it’ll be good for you. You’ve been alone too long.”

I shift away from the railing, steeling myself. “I like being alone.”

“You think you like being alone. You’ve resigned yourself to it as punishment for…” He throws me a quick, nervous glance. “For what happened when you were eighteen.”

I have half a mind to throw the observant motherfucker overboard.

“If I wanted psychoanalysis, I’d see a shrink,” I growl, though there’s no real heat behind it.

The ocean breeze tugs at my shirt, reminding me of other winds, other days. Days I’d rather forget.

“Who needs a shrink when you’ve got me?” Artem grins weakly, still clutching his handkerchief like a lifeline. “Besides, someone needs to call you on your bullshit.”

“All I need from you is muscle and loyalty.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender, though the effect is somewhat ruined by his greenish pallor. “At this rate, you won’t get either. You’ve sentenced me to death by yacht.”

Chuckling, I offer him my hand.

He takes it reluctantly and I pull him to his feet. “Come on. If we’re going to take on Boris, we need to be prepared.”

Artem follows me below deck, where my closest vory are lounging on the butter-soft leather, their hardened expressions dancing in the polished surfaces.

Only a few hours ago, Sutton stood where I am right now.

She puckered her full lips against the rim of a glass, making me wonder what it would look like wrapped around me instead.

She unknowingly tested whether I had the patience to wait until she’d signed the damn contract.

But I do.

Because she will.

Which means it’s time to put the rest of the plan into motion.

My men turn as I enter, quiet and reverent. “What I’m about to say stays in this room.”

Artem lets out a small groan as the yacht shifts and then begins handing out shots. We usually save the good stuff for after bloodshed, but this kind of announcement deserves some fanfare.

I let the tension build for a moment, feeling the weight of their expectations.

The crystal catches the light streaming through the windows, throwing prisms across serious faces.

“Boris’s time is over.” The words land like stones in still water, ripples of reaction spreading through my audience. “I’m taking back what’s mine. My father’s empire. The Bratva. All of it.”

“Fucking finally!” Efrem raises his glass, teeth flashing in his dark beard.

Mikhail leans forward, eyes gleaming. “How we gonna do it, boss?”

I smile, slow and predatory. “With a baby. And a wedding.”

“A wedding?” Vol’s jaw drops like I’ve just suggested we all give up crime and join a fucking monastery. “You’re getting married?”

“That’s what’s tripping you up?” Dustin snorts. “Not the part where he mentioned knocking someone up?” He turns to me, brows raised. “You’re going to be a father?”

Fuck.

A father.

I meant what I said to Sutton: I plan to be a good parent—whatever the hell that means.

I look through the window to the darkness stretching in every direction. The coastline has disappeared, leaving us surrounded by endless, empty blue.

No escape.

No witnesses.

Just my most trusted men and the truth I’m about to drop.

“Both are coming, in time.”

A wave of appreciative chuckles rolls through the room. These men have followed me through blood and fire. They know what it means when I set my mind to something.

“To the future pakhan!” Artem yells, raising his glass. The men follow suit, hollering in approval.

“To lighting a fire under Boris’s ass!”

The cheers grow louder.

“And to making babies!”

Wolf whistles and catcalls fill the air. In the mayhem, Artem slides closer, his voice low. “Have you even proposed to her yet?”

“Not yet. But she’ll agree.”

“How can you be so sure?”

As if on cue, my phone vibrates.

The image loads—my contract on the pale pink comforter of her bed…

… with her signature flowing across the dotted line like destiny.